I hate my job. I hate my fucking job. I fucking hate my fucking job.
And I used to love what I do. For whatever sad and shitty reason, I used to love working in a grocery store. How pathetic is that? It’s a fucking grocery store. I used to love waking up and getting ready for work. There were really days when I enjoyed helping people, I enjoyed talking to customers, and I enjoyed doing my job – but fuck that noise. Day in and day out people will shit all over your day. I’d spend hours to make shit look good, to put product out for those morons and they just shit on you. These customers will shit on you and walk away without so much as a “please” or a “thank you”. I might as well carry fucking bath tissue in my back pocket to wipe all the shit customers leave for me.
So fuck you, Arthur. Fuck you, Deborah. And fuck you, Sharon. Fuck you and your five dollar lipstick that you don’t even know how to apply right. And get that dick out of your mouth, Tom. You look like a twat. You’re in public, you fucking nitwit.
And they are so damn dumb. They are so damn dumb that they couldn’t even read a book and chew gum at the same time without having a fucking brain spasm. I mean, are you fucking kidding me? It never ceases to amaze me that these people got through middle school, let alone graduated high school. I cannot believe that these are actual living, breathing, functioning human beings. These fucklings are part of the outside world, they actually survive out there and have stayed alive for this long.
“Do you work here? Are you open? Do you guys have a bathroom? The sign says ’10 for $10′, so how much for just one? Do I have to buy ten if I only want one?”
Are you kidding me? Are you genuinely asking me these questions? Are these serious questions, questions that you honestly need an answer to because you haven’t a single cell in your body that has any common sense?
1. No, Jerry. I don’t work here. I’m just so in love with the idea of matching with random people inside of a store. And just ignore my name tag, because that’s totally not an indicator of my employment here.
2. If the sign that reads “open” is not flashing neon red, then no, I am not open. So fuck you, Amberlynn. And what the fuck kind of a name is “Amberlynn”? Pick one – either “Amber” or “Lynn”. Unless your dad is Billy Ray, you can’t have both, fucking dumbass.
3. No, we don’t have bathrooms. We bring boxes from home that we shit in and take with us wherever we go. And if you have to pee, just pee in the corner. Or cup your hands and throw your piss on someone else. That’s always a good conversation starter.
4. And what the fuck do you think, Tammy? Do you not know basic math? Ten for ten. Think really hard, Tammy. I mean really think hard about it. Did you think about it, Tammy? Did you? While you’re thinking about that, can I ask you a question: what’s it like to have one set of grandparents? And before you hurt yourselft… a dollar. It costs one dollar. And no you don’t have to buy all ten if you just want the one, Tammy. Fucking hell. I’m not going to hold a fucking gun to your head if you only want to buy one.
I can’t believe these fuckturds. Should sue the condom factory for this bullshit. It’s gotten to the point where I couldn’t even care less about how my department looks. Sometimes I’m too lazy to take a certain product back to it’s right place. I just toss it in a customers shopping basket. Just kidding… or am I? The world may never know. What I’ll never know is how Amberlynn is getting through life. How selfish of your parents to give you two first names. I hate your parents just as much as I hate my job. Fuck your parents, Amberlynn.
Fuck. Ironically enough, I gotta go to bed because I have work in the morning.